A Bridge You Can't Cross
by Emma15
Summary: Beer 'verse Story: Tragedy topples a carefully constructed world. Rating due to language
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Supernatural" or any of its wonderful characters.

**Author's Note**: Hi everyone! This is the first chapter of my attempt at incorporating the events of Season Two's "In My Time of Dying" into the Beer 'verse.

It's been in the works for a bit and massive thanks to **Lembas7 **who beta-fu'd it for me and acts as a wonderful sounding board. Thank you, hun! Any remaining errors are all mine.

As always, **thank you all so much** for consistently commenting and reviewing on this AU, I appreciate it SO much, it really drives me to putting it all down to paper. :D

Just a fair warning, at the end of Beer 'verse stories I tend to do quick work of patching up the boys' relationship with some tape and bubblegum, seems I've run out both. :\ The story will be written in outsider PoV throughout. The title is taken from Chris Ledoux's, "Fathers and Sons." I hope you enjoy!

* * *

She knew something was wrong. She knew it in the marrow of her bones and the man had only said six words.

_I need to speak to Sam._

No preamble, no explanation, no introduction; and he didn't need any. Jessica Winchester had never met her husband's father so she didn't know how she knew it was him.

But it was.

Shaky legs took her to Sam's side; he looked up from the computer. She handed him the phone without one word.

She saw him frown at her a little, then heard his curious, _Hello?_

The color leached from his face so abruptly she felt herself sway. It would have been better if he'd been up and pacing in an instant; if he'd scowled and started yelling; if he'd cursed and hung up the phone – anything would have been better than his shell-shocked eyes and hoarse, choked, _where? _

Sam pressed the end button on the phone and then sat staring at nothing, vision turned inwards to something she couldn't see.

Words stuck in her throat; her mind formed them, but she couldn't speak._ What happened? What is it? _She was supposed to ask, she wanted to ask, but she couldn't – because she knew.

He looked up at her again and Jess felt a shudder run through her – eyes hollow and wide and_ lost. _

She could see Sam was trying to find words too, that his mind was screaming them at her even as his mouth couldn't form them.

He blinked at her and she heard a rushing sound in her ears, just as he formed the word _Dean _on dry lips.

The rushing grew louder and the numbness began.

* * *

It was a blessing, actually, the numbness; the stillness that had descended over her. It enabled her to book plane tickets, call professors and work places, rent cars, pack clothing, drive to the airport . . .

Because Sam sure as hell wasn't able to do any of these things.

_Wha- _she'd managed before he'd cut her off.

_Car accident. _

_How is –_

_Bad._

And that was it.

Truthfully, that was a blessing too; his silence.

He was going to fall apart, shatter like glass against concrete and she wasn't so sure she would be able to handle the fallout.

It was easier to have Sam blindly obeying her commands – _get in, wait here, hold that – _then to think about what he'd told her, about what could happen, about Dean–

Easier to focus on what she could control: getting them on the next flight out to Iowa and organizing paid sick days and organizing _well that's just too freakin' bad because he won't be in until further notice _vacation days. She could handle that.

She couldn't handle _bad._

* * *

It had been the worst flight of her life. Of course, she'd really expected no less. Long and oppressively quiet, Jess had found her gaze cutting to Sam almost constantly just to make sure he was breathing. He'd been still as death, a thought she brushed aside instantly, the entire time – focused on something she couldn't see.

Numb, she'd decided. He was completely anesthetized, for the moment, to what was going on, to what they were doing, where they were going, what they'd find when they – another thought she refused to finish.

He was breathing deeply, steadily, now that they'd landed, keeping calm. But still, _she _was the one paying attention, not him. She was guiding them out of the airport and to a cab. She was looking for street signs and landmarks, she was trying to hold it together, because the fact that she _was _the one doing it said he absolutely _wasn't_. It said he was retreating behind a mask she'd only seen once – during a rare argument between him and Dean months ago. A mask that hid the Sam she knew behind a remoteness that still chilled her. Dean had a version of it too, just as chilling.

She was shaking all over. Couldn't stop, even though she was in control, even though she wasn't thinking about . . . she couldn't stop. And every time she looked at Sam her heart skipped a beat, because – God, he'd unravel. It was there, plain as the sky to see, if –

Sam would split apart, and she had no hope of fixing him. Jess didn't have the right thread; no one did. Since meeting Dean, since seeing them together, Jess had developed a deep incomprehension of how they could ever have been apart. How had they spent four years without contact? How?

Watching Sam and Dean in a room together was watching perfect symmetry. They were always aware of each other, matching each other, checking each other; knowing what the other was doing, what the other would say –

They were getting out of the cab now. Sam first. He paused for a moment on the sidewalk, glanced at her – face blank, mask in place – and then started forward. They knew what floor to go to. Jess had written it all down earlier when she'd called for an update. _Stable_, was all they'd said over the phone. Stable, but in the ICU.

They were inside too quickly, in the elevator too quickly, and she wasn't ready for this. Sam wasn't ready for this. For a moment Jess couldn't breathe, and she looked up at him, but he was staring straight ahead again. He was going to unravel if –

She forced herself to release a breath and draw one in. She couldn't lose control. Sam needed her to be calm, to be steady. He hadn't said it, but Jess knew. She knew it. He hadn't said much, but he didn't have to. She understood. What was there to say? How was any of this supposed to be put into words? She understood that it couldn't. Putting it into words made it real . . . and this, it couldn't be real.

* * *

Sam needed her to be the steady one. Jess reached out and took his hand in hers. He jumped a little, as he'd forgotten she was there. The gaze that met hers was dull and heavy and it made her heart clench. She wrapped both her hands around his, squeezing gently.

Something wobbled in the mask, shifted, then steadied again. It was all she needed to see, though. She moved in closer and laid her head on his arm. He was stiff, tension radiating off him. The elevator stopped. The doors slid open. He didn't move, though, didn't even twitch. He stared straight ahead, gone to a place she had no hopes of following. A place that belonged solely to Sam and Dean. She didn't covet that place, though; she knew her own version of it.

Jess tugged on his arm, using one of hers to keep the elevator doors from closing. He jumped again, realization leaping into forest green eyes, panic flared in them too and she tightened her hold on his hand. "Come on," she whispered past the lump in her throat.

Sam nodded, the mask holding steady. The mask was keeping him from shattering, she thought suddenly. Hiding behind it, holding onto it, it was keeping him sane.

A moment later and _he _was leading _her_, pulling her along – much too familiar with the generic layout of hospital floors. The thought bloomed and slithered away in her mind, tucked away with a dozen, maybe a hundred others.

Jess held on tightly, running a little to keep up with his long strides, refusing to let go of his hand.

Sam stopped suddenly.

She barely caught herself from bumping into him. Righting herself, she looked at him, ready to ask what was wrong. He was looking straight ahead, the mask so firmly, so completely in place her mouth snapped shut. Jaw clenched, chin hard, eyes cold, he looked fierce. The Sam in front of her was not one you'd like to meet in the dark. She shivered a little and followed his gaze.

Instinctively she took a step closer to Sam. The sole man in the waiting room was standing at its center. Tall, dark, and handsome – the cliché registered before anything else. A walking cliché... that was Sam's father.

That was Sam's father.

He had what looked like two-day old stubble on his face, a stitched up gash on his forehead, and an arm in a sling. He had Sam's dark looks and the same mask on. It was a Winchester trait then, she thought absently.

She swallowed hard. Normally, she'd try to break the ice. She was good at that; good at witty and relaxing.

This wasn't "normally." This was a father and son meeting for the first time in almost five years. This was Dean in a hospital_, _not here to make them all smile and roll their eyes.

Her eyes stung suddenly and she took a desperate, deep breath. _She _was the one person here who could not unravel. She squeezed Sam's hand gently, hoping for a reaction. She got none. The men continued to stare at each other, the air between them thick, swirling with things unsaid. She could feel it; the memories, the past; it was so strong you could drown in it if you wanted.Things were getting blurry, shining behind a shimmer she refused to acknowledge, when Sam's father took a step forward.

"Sam," he said, gravelly voice catching with something that sounded so much like grief that the stinging turned to burning. She swallowed hard, her own breath catching.

A shudder went through Sam, she squeezed his hand again.

"Dad," he whispered, choked and quiet.

She saw the older man work to swallow.

"Sam. It's been-" he began, but his voice cut off, broke; crumbled. Jess saw him draw a deep breath, stepping closer to them. "Been a long time-" he tried again, and again his voice caught.

Sam was nodding, eyes fastened unblinkingly on his father. She looked up at him, blinking to clear her haze of tears only to see a sheen marring his. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Too long," he added brokenly.

The older man had stopped a few feet away from them, eyes never wavering from Sam. He cleared his throat, swallowed again. "Wish it could be for better-" he began, but he never finished.

"Dad."

Sam's broken whisper cut his father off and an instant later the older man was directly in front of them, reaching out with his free arm to hook it around Sam's neck, pulling Sam forward towards him.

And Sam went; collapsed against his father, pulling his hand from hers and wrapping both arms around the older man, somehow shrinking his stature so he was tucked against his Dad's chest.

"Sammy," she heard his Dad whisper, saw the way his hand curled around Sam's jacket.

Jess turned around after that, giving them privacy.

She drew another shaky breath, pulling her emotions under control. She wrapped her arms around herself and studied the room. She'd only been in one other waiting room in her life – she'd been four years old and about to become a big sister.

She circled it slowly, trying to take it in, but too completely aware of the two men in the middle of it – pulling apart now, talking in hushed tones, heads lowered, touching. Sam's arm was latched onto his Dad's, his head practically leaning on the man's shoulder.

Sam's father had his free arm resting on Sam's back and as Jess watched, every few seconds he'd rub – comforting.

It was an odd notion for her. Jess had thought of Sam's father a lot since knowing Sam, since knowing Dean, since knowing SamandDean – and _comforting _had never entered the arena.

Sam's head lifted, abruptly meeting her gaze; it was her cue. Jess headed towards them slowly, feeling shy suddenly.

Sam's Dad.

She'd wanted to meet this man so much. The man that had raised such complex men, such close brothers, such fascinating human beings; had wanted to study him, to analyze what kind of father he'd been to two motherless little boys; to see if they'd become what they had because of him or in spite of him. She had wanted to judge him – because everything she'd gathered so far had told her this was a father to be tried and judged.

But not like this, not here, not with Dean –

The tears were stinging behind her eyes again as Sam outstretched a hand towards her. Jess took it, concentrating on keeping control.

She _felt _the man's gaze land on her, felt it study her, read her – judge her. The thought sent of a prickle of anger through her and she lifted her gaze to his.

Sam's eyes.

They were Sam's eyes, just not nearly as warm.

"This is Jess, Dad." Sam said softly, pulling her closer to him. Her eyes were fastened on the Dad though.

The man offered her the briefest of smiles and said huskily, "S'good to meet you."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah, yes. It's good to meet . . ." she trailed off. His gaze wasn't on her anymore. It was on Sam. No words that she could see were exchanged, but suddenly Sam's arm was slipping down to ensnare her waist and his chin was lifting in a way she'd seen Jilly do a million times to their Mom.

"My wife," Sam added, voice steady.

There was something going on here, something she didn't have a handle on and hadn't been watching for. The two gazes held for a moment longer, before she felt the weight of her father-in-law's gaze again.

"John Winchester," he said extending his had towards her.

She took it. His grip was warm and strong, the eyes that met hers steady, searching. An instant later the grip was gone and the older man's attention was on Sam again.

"I wanna see'm." Sam's words sounded oddly childlike to her, almost demanding with a thread of _pleading_ running through them.

The weary nod her father-in-law gave seemed odd too, as if relenting to an argument she hadn't heard.

"This way," he added after a moment, turning towards one of the hallways. Sam turned with him. Jess waited until the length of his arm pulled her along, watched the slow, shuffling gait of John Winchester, the way Sam frowned at the man's profile; heard Sam's quiet _Should you- _and the brisk _I'm fine _that cut the simple question off.

He tugged on her arm when she waited a few seconds too long before moving, shooting her that same frown. She squeezed his hand and lengthened her stride. They were silent as they made there way down the hallway. The walk was long enough for her to determine that there was definitely something wrong with John's leg and that it was questionable whether or not he should be in a hospital room of his own.

But then he stopped by a doorway and she stopped thinking.

"He's not . . ." John let the words trail off since Sam was already moving around him and through the door, Jess a couple steps behind him.

She heard Sam's whispered _Oh no _before her mind registered what she was seeing.

Dean was lying on the bed, eyes closed, tube down his throat, motionless.

* * *

TBC.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Supernatural" or any of its characters.

**Author's Note**: Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments! They really make my day! :D And thanks to the lovely **Lembas7** who beta'd this for me, any remaining errors all mine.

The majority of this chapter is Jess and John, just because I could! ;) I had fun having these two interact (despite the circumstances) and I hope you all enjoy it.

* * *

She couldn't move any further into the room. Her feet stuck to the tiles just inside and to the left of the door. Her eyes stuck to the pale figure lying on the bed. Sam was standing further into the room and to the right somewhere. He was talking to someone, the doctor, Jess supposed.

_... serious injury..._

_... blood loss..._

_... contusions to the liver..._

_... to the kidney's..._

She covered her mouth with her hand, trapping sound; her nails unconsciously digging into her cheek.

_... head trauma..._

_... cerebral edema..._

Sam was talking, asking questions, but his words were indistinct to her, as if her brain could only attune to the words coming from the doctor's mouth.

_... if he wakes up..._

_... realistic expectations..._

She shook her head, forcing her eyes away from the bed, from _Dean _on the bed; and looked over at Sam in time to the catch the expression of grief dawning on his face. Shock slithered back into his eyes, mixing with denial. Sam shook his head _no_ and the doctor's face shone with sympathy.

A moment later the doctor excused himself, informed them he'd be by later this evening and offered the location of his office in case they had any further questions.

She didn't think either of them acknowledged him in any way, but she couldn't be sure, couldn't even be sure how long they stood there in silence, save for the mechanical beeps of machines, after the doctor left. All she was sure of was that when Sam finally moved, edging his way closer to Dean, when he reached out and grasped Dean's arm just above the wrist, thumb smoothing little circles on the skin, and whispered a quiet _hey, man,_ her control wavered and the tears finally spilled.

* * *

They'd run out of coffee cup sleeves in the cafeteria. The hot liquid inside the frail paper cup was burning her hand.

The thought registered dimly, like the cold metal of the plastic chair and the occasionally flickering fluorescent lights of the waiting room; like Kerrie's increasingly panicked voice at the other end of phone line. Already she'd fielded calls from Jill and Lacey on her way to and from the cafeteria. She and Sam had left Palo Alto in such a rush she hadn't done more than leave a hasty voice mail for Kerrie with bare-bones news and a request that she tell the others.

Kerrie's voice cut through her thoughts, high-pitched and anxious. "Are you sure you don't want us to -"

"Yes," she cut in, her voice oddly hoarse in her own ears, "I'm sure." She'd been assuring Kerrie for the last ten minutes that there was no need for anyone to come out to Iowa, assuring her that she was handling things fine, that Sam was as well as could be expected, that Dean was stable.

Dean was stable; _is stable. _

Dean is stable.

She kept those three words on a loop in the background of her mind; they helped keep her voice steady when she spoke.

Vaguely she wondered what loop Sam was using. Sam, who had stopped shaking and seemed to have shouldered off the numbness completely. Sam, who had ensconced himself in his father's hospital room, because John had indeed been admitted, and not come out for almost an hour, whose yelling could be heard through the door even though his words had been indistinct—_possessed colts?_ Sam who had left on an errand – and that alone rocked her.

Sam had _left. _

His loop must be better than hers.

"We don't want you guys to be alone," Kerrie insisted. "And we're worried about Dean, we want-"

"I'll keep you updated," she promised again, the words coming smoothly.

"Jess, you don't sound okay."

_I'm not. _

Her mind responded, but her mouth said nothing. Sam had left, asking her to please stay with Dean, that he'd be back soon. She'd meant to ask where he was going, what he could _possibly _have to do when Dean was –

But she hadn't processed the thoughts, hadn't formulated the words fast enough and Sam had pressed a kiss to her mouth and vanished; leaving her alone with his estranged father and dying brother in a hospital hundreds of miles from home.

The palm of her hand was burning. The sensation made her fingers begin to twitch. She should put the cup down or switch it to her other hand; her grip on the cup tightened.

"I am," Jess lied, "And we're not alone, their Dad is here."

Kerrie's focus shifted at the mention of Sam's Dad, just as Jess had intended.

"Yeah, I forgot you mentioned he was there. What's he like?"

Jess bit back a bubble of hysterical laughter. She had the feeling she'd never know what John Winchester was _like. _

Instead she answered calmly, "He's worried, but okay – like me and Sam."

She knew that wasn't what Kerrie had meant and rushed on before her friend could point it out. "I have to go now, Ker, but thanks for calling, okay."

Kerrie wrangled another assurance that Jess would keep her updated, promised to keep the others from calling anymore, and then murmured a sincere goodbye.

Jess brought the phone down from her ear and stared at it for a moment in the palm of her hand before pressing end with her thumb. She closed her fist around it then, eyes shifting to the coffee cup- it had cooled while she talked, the steam billowing out much more slowly, the burning against her skin fading.

"Lotta phone calls?"

The question startled her, making her jump a bit, but she covered quickly by slipping her phone into the pocket of her jeans. She sensed 'jumpy' wasn't something her father-in-law would appreciate. He was shuffling over to the seat next to her, lowering himself into it, before she realized his question required an answer.

"A few," Jess responded.

He nodded, settling back against the seat, stretching his leg out in front him.

"Friends?" he asked, eyes locked onto her face.

She nodded, shifting the coffee cup to her other hand. "They're worried," she offered, bringing the cup to her lips.

"About Dean?"

Something in those two words made her freeze, cup midway to her mouth, and turn her face to look at him.

The question hung between them, meaning more than those two simple words. His intense eyes holding hers steady, asking her things she suddenly knew he would never say; saying words she sensed he would never form.

_Do they know him? Care about him?_

_Have you let him in? _

_Will you keep him?_

"Yes."

The word slid smoothly into the space between them, swirling with the unformed words and unasked questions. Her eyes burned and her throat tightened for no reason. That hooded gaze was doing something to her, showing her something she couldn't quite see.

She blinked, looked away before she embarrassed herself by bursting into tears. If Sam could hold it together, could go out on _errands_,then she could sit here and not bawl. Jess cleared her throat. "Should you be out of your room?" she asked, eyes on the coffee she'd yet to drink.

A short chuckle, then, "Trying to get rid of me, Jessy?"

The question had a patronizing air to it and she felt herself scowl a little. "No," she answered shortly, looking up at him again, not feeling the need to expand on that response.

He smirked at her, _Dean's _smirk-- with Sam's dimples. "Just a question, kid."

"My name is _Jessica._"

He nodded, smirk fading, "I know."

Her eyes narrowed a little, his tone implying that he knew more than just her name. "How surprising. I'd have thought you didn't even know Sam had married."

Despite this not being the time or place, Jess was suddenly _furious _at this man; this man who had boycotted his son's _wedding. _

The smirk disappeared completely, his body shifting a little towards her. "You have something you'd like to say to me Jessica?" he asked, an eyebrow lifting archly.

She held his gaze for a moment, but it was such a _Dean _look, that pointed gaze, that lift to his brow, that the fury evaporated as suddenly as it had appeared.

She shook her head, tearing her eyes from him, shifting the coffee cup to her other hand again. She had nothing to say to this man, not here.

"You should say it," he continued, tone shifting again and she noted that the mercurial moods must be genetic. "If you do."

She remained silent, because it didn't matter right now. It didn't matter if it was despite or because, if he had helped or hindered, if he deserved them or not; right now it made no difference. Right now only one thing mattered, _Dean is stable._

She could feel his gaze studying her profile, wondered if when she had a son he would inherit those heavy eyes the Winchester men seemed to carry.

"You'll never be on the inside, you know."

The words were pitched in the most neutral tone she had ever heard from anyone. Not conversationally or warningly, not friendly or darkly—just words, without an iota of inflection. The _Winchester World Secrets _flashed in her mind, the teasing name she'd given Sam and Dean's quiet conversations and abrupt departures. The name she had given the looks they shared that she couldn't begin to decipher, the way they communicated with signals no one else could see. An inside world surrounded by Winchester Walls she'd never breach, she knew that; having confirmation from their possibly dead-beat Dad didn't change anything.

When she turned to face him again, she felt tears hot and thick building up inside her. He didn't have to tell her that, she knew that, had been watching it for going on a year now; had wondered if having Dean in their lives was worth knowing the pain of being an outsider, had decided the answer was yes.

"I don't need to be." She told him, words tight from the effort of holding in those tears. She wouldn't cry in front of this man.

Again those dark eyes, Sam's eyes, Dean's lashes, bored into her. She wondered what he would say now, wondered what the purpose of saying anything to her at all was.

And then he smiled at her; not wide or happy, but just sincere. "You're a good fit for Sam," he offered and then looked away from her, eyes focusing somewhere across the waiting room, leaving Jess to study his profile in surprise.

She blinked, looking away too, the tears still too uncomfortably close to the surface.

She knew that as well, knew that she and Sam fit, wouldn't have married him otherwise. It didn't matter if this man saw it too, if he saw both core tenants of her relationship with his son – that they fit and that she would always be on the outside somehow.

"You're not a good father."

The words slipped out, no conscious effort or thought except that if he was going to tell her things she already knew, she could return the favor. She waited to see if he had anything to offer, a denial, an explanation, anything. But the silence stretched and she wondered if he hadn't heard her at all.

"I tried to be," he offered a moment before she was about to continue, his voice distant, quiet; almost as if he weren't speaking to her at all. "I could've tried harder."

The admittance was barely audible and so raw she wondered suddenly why he'd voiced it at all.

"You love your sons," she offered after a beat, still not looking at him, his confession still echoing in her mind. She didn't doubt that now, wasn't sure why she didn't doubt it; had only seen Sam in the presence of his father for maybe five minutes, hadn't seen this man with Dean at all.

Still, Jess knew he loved them. It was in his eyes, in his gaze, in the way he held himself when he looked at Sam, when he was thinking of them.

She was holding the coffee cup with both hands now, staring down at it. It wasn't hot at all anymore. The thought of drinking it made her feel nauseous. Silence stretched around them, heavy and sickening, and she wished he'd go back to his room, wished he'd leave her alone to worry and cry if she wanted to.

"So, Dean tells me you read trashy romance novels."

Her head snapped up, eyes fastening onto his profile in shock. It was such an outrageous thing to say right then, right now, here; such an arbitrary thing for him to know, such a _random _thing for Dean to share with his father, that it came as no surprise when her tears spilled even as she released a breathy laugh.

He turned to her, his eyes the kindest she'd seen them yet and suddenly she was shaking, laughing or maybe crying all at once.

He took the cup from her hands before she could spill any; set it down on the floor on the other side of him. Then her hands were in his; she drew in a shuddering breath, not meeting his gaze, pulling one hand free of his so she could wipe her tears. "I've given him a couple for the road, ya know," she whispered.

"Dean is going to be okay," he said calmly, assuredly.

She swallowed hard, meeting his gaze. "Yeah, I know – I just -"

"He will be," her father-in-law insisted confidently and she frowned a little at the certainty there. He must have the same loop Sam had, she thought weakly.

"Sam too." John continued.

And her frown intensified; a spike of fear making her sit up straighter. He was scaring her.

"They do that for each other, make the other okay; they _hear_ each other, save each other," he squeezed her hand. "Remember that."

And then he released her, patted her knee, and began shifting forward, gathering himself up to leave.

They didn't make sense; those words, that tone – they had no place in what was happening now.

She didn't say anything, just watched silently as he stood and shuffled back down the corridor towards his room. Then she took a moment to replay their conversation-- when it filled her with a sense of misgiving, she brushed the episode from her thoughts; letting _Dean is stable _begin its loop in her mind once again.

She'd think of her father-in-law's words tomorrow, if she had the sanity to spare.

For the time being, she sat sipping her cold coffee and waiting for Sam to return.

* * *

TBC.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Supernatural" or any of its characters.

**Author's Note**: Thank you all so much for your feedback! It's wonderful to hear what you think.

Chapter 3 is rather quiet, a mood setter, so to speak. And to address some quick concerns: Jess's PoV will be ending in chapter 4, then someone else will take over. I know the story is short on brother moments, what with Dean in a coma and all, but no worries, there are a few to come! ;)

As always, thanks to the lovely **Lembas7 **for beta'ing! Any remaining errors are all mine, since I tend to do a second run through before posting! :P I hope you enjoy!

* * *

"Sam! SAM!"

Jess yelled his name; didn't care that they were just outside the hospital, didn't care that people stopped and stared, didn't care that she had suddenly become _that _person – the hysterical, sleep-deprived one that nobody wanted to make eye contact with. She didn't care, because for the second time Sam was leaving her in this hospital with no explanation.

He stopped, turned towards her. "Jess, please -"

"Where the _hell _could you _possibly be _going?!" She yelled that too. In fact, she knew she was a hair's breadth away from yelling curse words – real curse words, the kind she made an effort to avoid because she could still see her mother's frown and hear her saying, _ladies shouldn't have mouths likes sailors unless they _are _sailors, Jessica. _

And she wasn't a sailor, she was grad student.

But Dean had _coded _– his heart had stopped _beating, _they'd had to resuscitate him, to bring him back; he'd been gone, _dead_ . . . _Dean had been dead._

And Sam was leaving_. _

He was standing in front of her now, gently holding her by the forearms, peering into her face, like he could see that she was about to become a sailor.

"Trust me," he said. She dug her nails into the palm of her hand to avoid raking them down the side of his face.

Jess shook her head, stepped back, out of his hold, away from him.

"_Where _are you going - how can you -" The words stumbled over each other, her thoughts skittering away before she could process them.

"Jess, please – not right now. I know I ask a lot of you… I know that." Sam drew in a deep breath, but didn't come any closer.

A distant part of her applauded that, was pleased that he knew her that well. Most of her was attuned to his words though, waiting to see what it was he _knew _right now.

"I know you're overdue for a meltdown."

_Goddammit. _

The way his eyes widened told her she'd become a sailor. Jess narrowed her eyes and took a step closer to him. Might as well say it again, in that case. "Goddammit, Sam!" She hissed, pent up worry morphing into full blown anger.

"I am notoverdue for a fucking meltdown! I am overdue for fucking _explanation _is what I'm OVERDUE for! What is going on?! You already left this morning! And came back storming into your Dad's room like someone lit a damn fire in your pants! And you slam things and yell at him and ARGUE! In a HOSPITAL, Sam! And what the _hell _was that about anyway?! A plan for _what?! _And Dean is -" The words vanished, her voice faltered, but she had enough steam to keep going without them. "You go off checking on the Impala and running _errands _for your Dad and Dean -" She shook her head, giving up on that particular sentence. "WHAT is happening here?!"

Sam didn't say anything, only stared at her with those wide red-rimmed eyes and she felt the burn of shame creep in despite her flash of anger. He didn't need this from her.

He released a puff of air, expression caught oddly somewhere between frustration and regret. "I'm sorry, but you – you wouldn't understand," he said softly, the words coming slowly. "And I don't – I don't have time for this, Jess. Not now, I know we - you're right, you are, but not now . . . please, don't do this now."

He meant it, every word; each one a plea in and of itself. Jess swallowed hard, nodded, looked away. Bit back the anger, tucked it away for another place and time.

"I'm going to get something for Dean, to help him," Sam offered a beat later; his olive branch to her.

The tip of the iceberg, she knew, but she didn't push. Nodded again, accepting the proffered peace, and tuned backed towards the hospital.

She managed one step away when the image of Sam standing alone in the hospital hallway, staring dazedly through the doorway into Dean's room, rose unexpectedly into her mind. He had been in his Dad's room, shouting so loudly she could hear him from the waiting room, and then the alarms had gone off. A horrifying sound that signaled the end of a world. Jess had made it to the opening of the hallway and then frozen, watching Sam watch Dean. He'd watched the fight to bring Dean back, watched them almost lose, saw them barely succeed.

Jess whirled around, breathing a rushed "_Sam,_"even as she ran towards him. He caught her against his chest, accepting the embrace she needed to give. The hug was hard and quick, a burst of love she needed to express or choke on. He got that, Sam always got the important things she couldn't say – she was trying to learn to do the same.

"I'll hurry," he whispered.

A moment later he was gone, long strides carrying him across the hospital entryway and towards the parking lot.

She brought a shaky hand to her face, rubbing at it wearily as she whispered sincerely, "I'll be here," to the empty space where Sam had just been.

* * *

"_Her long tresses of gleaming black hair glistened under the moonlight. In the dim, glowing light he was able to study her stunning profile. He felt his breath catch in his throat at the sheer overwhelming beauty he found in her. He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and taste the sweetness of her lips against his. If only his lady would offer some sign of returning his affections he would not hesitate to make known his intentions." _

Jess frowned at the book and then looked up. "Whaddaya think? Not much of a doer, this guy, huh?" She closed it and set it atop the reject pile.

"Hospital taste in brain candy books is really sad. There are standards you know." She told him, voice much softer than the last time she'd explained the standards to him. "The girl has to be spunky and down-to-earth or sweet and humble or rich and misunderstood."

The whirring and beeping of the machines kept up a steady rhythm of background noise. Sam had been gone for close to hour, and she expected him back at any moment. In the meantime, Jess had spent a small fortune by buying crappy romance novels from the hospital gift shop.

She was reading passages aloud to Dean, just in case it was even remotely possible to wake someone up from a coma by provoking massive amounts of sheer irritation.

Jess cleared her throat; it was developing a habit of closing up on her. "This would be the part where you insert that she has to be hot too – and that there are a lot of kinds of hot."

She paused, memories of Dean describing _shy-hot _and _sexy-hot _to her almost making her smile. "And yeah, you're right, she does. There are standards for the guy too," she continued. "The guy has to be . . . honorable, even when he's not. And he has to be . . . " she trailed off; thoughts scattering as her eyes dropped to the scratches on his hands.

She reached into the plastic bag, searching for another small paperback. The one she pulled out displayed a pair of stocking-feet dangling on the cover – right above discarded lacy underwear. Jess opened it, started to make a joke about the cover being classy, and then just . . . couldn't.

Five books ago, she might have been able to pull it off. But almost an hour alone with Dean so silent, so still . . . _dying_, and she was starting to forget her loop. Because stable wasn't good enough, not nearly good enough; because she needed joking and smiling and teasing; because it was seeping in, chilling every atom of her body – the realization that Dean might never have that conversation with her again, and sitting here pretending was the same as sitting here wasting time.

The book slipped from her hands. It made an oddly loud thumping sound in the almost silent room.

She listened to the machines keep Dean breathing, keep him alive. When she spoke, her voice sounded young and scared even to her own ears, but she couldn't help it – was focused mostly on keeping it from quavering.

"Don't -" Tears filled her eyes, but Jess was alone with Dean and if anything, this was her best excuse to cry in front of him. "Do _not_ make me get all… _mushy_ with you when I won't – won't even get to see you squirm; that's the best part, you know."

The hum of the machines was her only response.

Jess swallowed hard, touched his hand lightly, skimming her fingers over the cuts. "Be okay, Dean. Please. I've never had a brother before and I – I like it."

* * *

TBC.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Supernatural" or any of its characters.

**Author's Note**: And so it happens.

* * *

"You can go home now."

Jess blinked, startled to her core, looking up at Sam with what she knew must be sheer incomprehension.

The words were nonsensical. Not that much _had_ made sense in the last thirty minutes.

They were standing just outside Dean's room – Dean's regular room. Dean was awake, Dean was alive, Dean was _fine. _

His father, Sam's father, was not.

The man who had promised her that everything would be fine was dead.

And Sam was looking at her with dark, impassive eyes, telling her to go home.

She had still been in Dean's room when Sam had returned from his last errand clutching a brown paper bag to his chest. By that point Jess had given up on reading, on talking, on trying not to cry.

She had just been sitting there, occasionally brushing her fingers over his hand; wiping at her face with her other hand while making bargains with God about all the things she'd give up and start doing if He would just save Dean.

"_Hey," Sam said, seeming surprised to see her. _

_Jess looked up, quickly wiping at her face again. "Hey yourself. Glad you're back."_

_He nodded, but his eyes were already on Dean. "Any change?"_

_She shook her head. "No. Just . . . quiet." _

_He nodded again, still looking at his brother. She could _feel _Sam's longing, his _need _for Dean to be okay, and Jess offered up another quick prayer for God to take notice, to understand that these brothers were two halves of a whole and that was rare enough that it should be saved, preserved. _

_Sam looked at her suddenly and her prayer faltered. _

"_Do me a favor?" he asked. _

_She nodded, not needing to voice the _anything _her eyes were saying._

"_Would you get a motel room somewhere? I just, I don't want to have to figure it out and you – we should . . . there should be somewhere for you- us, to go tonight." _

_She ignored the stumbling words. It was no surprise that Sam had no plans to leave here tonight. And she really had no plans to leave Sam. _

"_We don't need to -"_

"_Please, Jess," he interrupted. "Go do this for me."_

_The key word being _'go' _of course. She threw one more glance at Dean and then stood. "Yeah, okay." _

_Sam swallowed, nodding. He was still standing by the door, still clutching that bag like it held the answer to all their problems. _

_Jess wasn't going to ask what was in it. She just hoped it somehow did._

"_Thanks," he offered a moment later when she approached him. _

_She nodded and he moved aside, so she could leave the room. She heard him shut the door firmly behind her. _

She'd come back to the hospital less than two hours later and everything had changed.

She'd spoken to the doctors involved trying to get a clearer understanding beyond Sam's _Dad's dead, Dean's okay, _but apparently there was no clearer understanding to be had. It had happened abruptly and for no medical reason that either man's doctor could determine.

Sam was still looking at her, but she got the feeling it wasn't because he was waiting for a response. She got the feeling he wasn't _seeing _her at all anymore; like Dean, who was awake, but not _there. _

Dean who had looked straight through her a moment ago when she'd gone in to see him, not that she'd had a chance to say anything to him. She'd barely walked into the room before Sam had come to stand between her and the bed, blocking her view of Dean and muttering a low, _Let's talk._

And now this.

"What?" Jess finally asked, needing him to say it again, even though she knew he wasn't going to change a word of it.

Sam blinked very slowly, as if pulling himself out of a deep daydream. "You can go now," he repeated, as she'd known he would. Then he added, "Back to Palo Alto. You can go."

She swallowed and made a conscious effort to not take this personally at all; because yes, she was his wife, but his father had just died.

"I want to be here, Sam," she told him gently. "To help with – with whatever needs to be done. I want to be here with you -"

"I want you to leave."

The soft words cut her off and Jess snapped her mouth shut, clenching her jaw against taking that personally, ignoring the sting behind her eyes.

"Sam, you -"

"You can't help," he hissed, the first edge of emotion she'd seen since getting to the hospital. He was so stoic, so severe; Dean too. Nothing like she would be if her father were gone. "It's just me and Dean. Just us."

She wanted to argue that, to protest it, to tell him that she was here and wouldn't leave – but she didn't.

She didn't because he wanted her to leave. She didn't because she had known the Winchester brothers for long enough now to realize, that in a way she could never hope to understand – it really was just the two of them.

"Okay," she whispered instead, but the tears pooled in her eyes anyway. She was careful not to blink so they wouldn't spill in front of him.

He saw them though and wavered, a hand coming up to frame one side of her face, his thumb touching an errant tear. "Thank you."

She nodded, stepping back, out of his hold. "How long – where will you -" She couldn't finish the questions, suddenly irrationally afraid of the answers.

"We're staying with a friend of – he's a friend of -" Sam stumbled over the words, pain flickering over his face, before finishing with a quiet, "Ours. Friend of ours."

Jess nodded again. "I can stay until they release Dean -"

"No, you don't have to do that," he interrupted. "You can leave today." Sam didn't say _now _again, but she heard it loud and clear.

She swallowed hard. "Yeah, okay . . ." Her gaze flickered to the doorway of Dean's room.

"I'll tell Dean you said goodbye."

It was too much; that she couldn't even say goodbye after – after _liver contusions _and _cerebral edemas _and _if he wakes up. _The sob slipped out and even without looking she felt him flinch.

"Jess." The word was ragged, slipping out through clenched teeth and when she looked up, he was stepping back away from her, disengaging; as if just being near her was unacceptable right now.

She shook her head. "I just -"

He cut her off. "I can't -"

She released a rushed breath, not needing to hear anything more, turning away from him, from the doorway, swallowing back the lump of _unfair _that was stuck in her throat. She had to understand – certain people locked down under grief, Sam would be like that. Dean too – they couldn't deal with her. She understood that.

"Okay," she murmured, knowing that he could hear her. "Just… call, okay?"

A pause, then a quiet, "Yeah."

She didn't look back, didn't want him to see how much she was crying; because it wasn't all about this moment, it was everything; it was this _day _and how it always hurt the same no matter how many times she slammed into the Winchester Wall. It was the missed opportunities with a man who had surprised her with his warmth. It was a profound well of relief too huge to process, surrounded by a sea of burning shame for being so thankful that Dean was okay to the exclusion of all else.

It was just _everything_ – and suddenly, going home didn't seem like such a bad idea.

Jess walked away.

* * *

**Author's Note #2**: I'll be away until the end July, so next chapter will be a bit long in coming-- but allow me to entice you with the promise of some Bobby PoV! and at looong last brother moments! (I miss Dean :P) and angst! A boatload of it. ;)

Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed and commented! I appreciate your feedback so very much! :D I also really appreciate the offers I've gotten for tape! Heh. I'm afraid it won't do any good with where I'm taking them in this story. ;)

And massive thanks to **Lembas7**, whose lovely beta'ing skills have been bestowed upon my stories for a year now! Thanks, hun! Any remaining errors are all mine.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Supernatural" or any of its characters (or plotlines!)

**Author's Note**: Hiya. Hope everyone's summer is going well! :-) This chapter takes place the evening following "Everybody Loves a Clown." Tis Bobby PoV.

Thank you all for your fabulous reviews and PM's. I love to hear from you. Mega thanks to **Lembas7** for beta'ing this for me, any remaining errors are all mine-- since I went back and added stuff! ;)

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

They were as screwed to hell as he'd thought they'd be; Dean ashen and more still than Bobby'd ever seen him, moving like he had nowhere to be ever again. Sam was almost as pale and strung wire-tight, anxious eyes tracking his brother's every movement.

They'd taken care of the body, Sam had told him, voice choked with tears. Dean had said nothing.

He'd made them dinner that first night, let them wander around the house, let them wallow a bit. Then in the morning over black coffee and hard bagels he'd told Sam his library could use an organizational overhaul and Dean that his vendor contact list was in the garage office and he'd better put the tools back where he found them when he was finished for the day.

They'd blinked at him a little bit, and then nodded; each silently finishing his breakfast and then heading off to do their respective 'work.'

And just like that he'd unwittingly laid out a pattern for them to follow. Dean especially adhered to it rigidly. After breakfast he'd spend the entire day working on the Impala and whenever humanly possible he avoided speaking.

Sam would work with the books all morning, then he'd make lunch and take it out to Dean. After which he'd spend two or three hours trying to _talk _with his brother.

That usually ended with Bobby's kitchen door slammed nearly off the hinges and one of his tools flung across the junkyard.

When they'd taken up a hunt, he'd thought things were looking up; thought maybe Dean was unwinding a bit and Sam was getting ready to head back to that wife he'd told Bobby he had.

Then Dean had bashed holes into the Impala's trunk with a crow bar.

And Sam had emptied an entire shelf of books onto the floor with one sweep of his hand.

Bobby wasn't sure which Winchester's ass he wanted to kick most. John's, he supposed-- goddamn the bastard for kicking the bucket. Who the hell told him he could go and _die _anyway? Die and leave his kids all tangled up and cracked open.

Bobby sighed and stood from the porch steps, enough with inner monologue.

He'd give it another week, he decided as he headed inside, if they didn't work things out themselves, didn't figure out how to start livin' again, he was going to have to get his hands in the mess and sort it out for them, damn Winchester's.

* * *

"Been a long time since I seen you standing by a wreck with a tool in your hand."

Sam's head lifted at the sound of his voice. Bobby'd gone in to take a shower after sortin' out his plan of attack on the porch; had his sweat-pants and raggedy t-shirt on for bed when he noticed one of the lights still on out in yard; seen Sam standing by the Impala almost as soon as he'd stepped off the porch.

He'd almost reached the kid when Sam spoke again. "I don't know what to do."

"Yeah," he said wryly, "That seemed to be the case whenever I did see it."

Sam's laugh was quiet, almost humorless as he set the screwdriver down where he'd found it.

"Good idea. Your brother'd tear you a new one for fiddlin' with'er."

Sam turned to face him. "I wish he'd give it a try, Bobby. I wish he'd give anything besides this a try." He made a motion towards the Impala, the only thing Dean had shown an interest in since…

They both winced a little at the earnestness in Sam's voice, the yearning.

Bobby released a long, tired sigh. He'd known as soon he'd stepped out in the yard that Sam was out here mopin'-- come to think of it, Bobby wasn't sure he could take a full of week of this.

Sam had spent the evening re-sorting the books he'd spilled and then he'd disappeared from sight; just like Dean.

"There's just so much." He continued, "The thing that killed mom… a _demon, _Bobby. And it almost--almost killed Dean… and a colt that can—can kill anything and just… Pastor Jim is _gone_… and there's just so _much_ that happened."

The kid drew in a deep breath, then shook his head slowly, "I knew that—that things were happening, I _knew_ it because he stopped telling me stuff, didn't call as much. I knew things were happening and I knew it had to be—to be bad—if he wasn't telling me. And I didn't push, Bobby. I didn't—I was afraid that it could… I liked things the way they were and I didn't want to—to shake things up and I should have—should have thought that maybe he _needed _to talk, needed help. I should have pushed."

"Sam--"

But the kid wasn't listening, his eyes were fastened intently on the ground his voice picking up in fervor. "I'm going to push now, Bobby. I have to. He has to talk about it, to tell me what he's thinking. Because he's so still and quiet and I know he's thinking. And I have to—have to know _what _he's thinking. I'm going to push." He stopped there, speech just ending like it could no longer give voice to his racing fears and determinations.

"He needs time, Sam." Bobby stated after a moment.

Sam's head lifted, eyes meeting his, shaking his head again. "It's been almost two weeks. I'm not saying he shouldn't still be grieving, because I know that-- I mean, it's never-- I don't expect that to go away, but Bobby… he's not… he's… just _not._ He's not dealing with it at all and it's-- it's ripping him to shreds inside, it _has _to be. And I'm scared he's gonna do… I just don't know what to do! I tried to-- to talk to him after this hunt, to get it out in the open, but he's just—it's like he's shut it out or off or something."

Bobby shrugged, moving in closer and sitting on bumper of an old junker. "Losin' your Dad--"

"I know," Sam cut in, sitting down next to him. "You don't think I know? I--" The kid's voice broke suddenly and Bobby dug the toe of his unlaced boot into the ground. "_One day, _Bobby. That's all-- it's my fault, I know that, but all I got was one day with him and--"

Bobby looked up. "Whoa, whoa. Hold it, kid. Don't be puttin' rose-colored glasses on. That rift 'atween the two of you was as much John's fault as yours. Both a'you too damn stubborn."

"_Half the_ _time I don't even know what we're fighting about_. That's what he said to me, Bobby; that half the time he didn't even know--"

There was that choked sob again, head hanging low, eyes closed tight as Sam tried to regain control. "Five years and he didn't even--"

Eyes full of tears and soul-drenching regret lifted to look at Bobby. "And me either, Bobby. I couldn't tell you what half of the fights were about. Just me not wanting to…" He shrugged, head dropping again. "Not wanting to let him win, to-- to be like him. And now--"

"Now what?" Bobby interrupted. "You got yourself a wife, Sam. A career. You tellin' me you regret that? You tellin' me you'd give that up if you had a second chance?"

The kid's head snapped up, eyes wide. "No! I just-- I could have, _should _have done it differently!"

"Different how?"

"I don't know… talked to Dad, maybe tried harder to make him--"

"We still talkin' about John Winchester here?"

"Bobby--"

"Your Dad knew one way of doing things, Sam. His." Bobby waited a moment so the words could sink in, for Sam to remember how true they were, then he added, "You did it the only way you could do it. No shame in that."

The yard was silent and Bobby let his gaze travel back to the house, to the darkened window of the room Dean was using. Somehow he knew it wasn't like the boy to not be there when Sam needed him; when Sam had to do something like this, had to work things out like this, by talking and sharing and being understood and reassured.

He was looking at Bobby again, eyes imploring, looking for that understanding and reassurance. "I didn't realize-- I really just… missed him."

The words were awed, like the boy had just come up with the concept, like five years of estrangement had just caught up with him—and maybe they had.

"I mean—he… he was my _Dad _and I _did _love him, Bobby, I _did. _ I just… thought— or didn't think… I never thought that one day he wouldn't be there, you know?"

Bobby held his tongue, knew the boy wasn't really looking for an answer, was just looking to let it out, to give voice to the thoughts that were haunting him in hopes that he could somehow escape them, somehow find peace.

Sam swallowed hard, shaking his head, eyes meeting Bobby's again. "God. I never—I never thought for one second that if I needed him— you know,_ really _needed him, he wouldn't come. I never thought he wouldn't come. How stupid is that?" He asked deprecatingly.

Bobby was silent for a beat, then stated wryly, "Not too bad considerin' he would'a."

His efforts were rewarded by a small puff of air that could have been a laugh or another sob. They were silent for another long moment, before Sam ducked his head, "So much—wasted time… and I just… I miss him." He repeated sounding impossibly young and lost.

Bobby nodded, saying nothing, wrapping an arm around the kid's shoulders, feeling the way Sam turned into him, the way the kid scrunched down to bury his face in Bobby's shoulder. This is what Sam needed, how he drew comfort and peace. How or where Dean would find the same things Bobby had no idea.

The feel of heavy air around him, of being watched, had him lifting his face to Dean's darkened window again. He caught Dean's gaze immediately. The moonlight illuminating the way the boy's eyes were fastened intensely on him and Sam, his face completely blank.

It was such a strange, faraway look that Bobby felt a prickling along his skin, like he was watching Dean impassively float farther and farther away them.

And as the boy let the curtain drop, removing himself from window pane, from view, Bobby couldn't help but wonder if that wasn't indeed what was happening.

* * *

TBC.

**Author's Note #2**: Actual Brother Interaction in the next chapter, I swear! ;)

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the characters (or plotlines) of "Supernatural."

**Author's Note**: Hiya! The end of this chapter alludes to events that took place in "Wendigo" which never _actually _took place in the Beer 'verse but were referenced in the first chapter of "Unfurl". Heh, you'll know it when you see, uh read it. ;)

As always thank you SO MUCH for your reviews and PM's. They mean a great deal to me. And huge thanks to **Lembas7** for beta'ing for me despite her busy schedule. Any remaining error are all mine (since I totally added a chunk after I got it back). Eek. :P

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

He just spat it out; that was his way and he was too old to change it so as not to shock their fragile psyches or something. "I had a nice chat with that wife of yours couple days past, Sam."

They were sitting at the table, coffee mugs and bagels in front of them. The morning paper was near Sam, he was flipping through it, not even pretending to read it. A car magazine sat near Dean, though he wasn't even flipping through it. Both were just props so the boys wouldn't have to actually look at each other.

But at Bobby's announcement their heads snapped up so fast Bobby was surprised he didn't hear a cracking sound; would'a been the first sound in four days that wasn't a grunt.

He'd been right. He hadn't made it a full week. He'd made it two days.

Damn Winchesters.

And still, only two days and he'd practically suffocated on the tension they were both radiating. An actual week of it and the two of 'em mighta ended up with buckshot in their rear-ends just so he could see a reaction outa of 'em. It turned out that the Winchester boys could do passive-aggressive just as well, if not better, than they did regular aggressive.

"You _what?" _Sam finally asked, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

Bobby nodded, shifting to hold his coffee mug with both hands. "Got a good head on her shoulders, that girl. Good thing too," he added after a beat.

Sam just blinked at him, missing the barb completely. "You talked to Jess?" he clarified a moment later.

Bobby couldn't stop the eye roll. "You got another wife out there?"

Sam shifted to face him, face contorting in a frown. "How — Why would you — how did you even know -- Where did you get the phone -"

Bobby snorted a laugh; it slipped past before he could stop it. Because, seriously? "Sam, I've tracked down ancient rituals translated from dead languages; you think a phone number in Palo Alto would be a problem?"

"Why did you call her?" Dean intervened. His question was quiet, like most things Dean said these days.

Bobby let the smirk melt off his face, gave Dean all his attention and shrugged as carelessly as he could manage. "Seemed like a family affair goin' on here," he answered.

There was a heavy pause in the air and then Dean spoke.

"Family affair," he repeated; the two words were flat, but anything but neutral.

Bobby practically felt Sam flinch, but the younger boy kept silent.

He didn't. He hardened his voice and met Dean's gaze head on. "That's right."

Dean returned the stare with nothing resembling intensity or focus, just a blank, distant look that hinted at nothing.

"What did you say to her?" Sam asked, interrupting their little staring contest. "What did she say?" His voice was anxious now, the anger gone.

Bobby pulled his eyes from Dean and answered Sam. "She's worried," he began and then paused, not for dramatic effect but because he needed a moment to fortify himself.

He'd done it, called Jessica Winchester, because he couldn't watch these boys self-destruct right on his property, because he was watching them slip away from each other, watching Dean retreat and Sam begin to give up the chase.

Because he couldn't take Dean's blank stare anymore. The boy was disconnecting from them and he'd known enough disconnected hunters to fear that circumstance. He couldn't let John's boy head down that path, couldn't watch what it would do to Sam; he'd had to _do_something, had to provoke something, introduce an element that would mix things up a little— and that was the nature of wives.

He took a quick breath and continued, "She should be here sometime tomorrow, day after at the latest."

The words took a moment to register, then Sam's face flushed with color. "You asked her to come here?"

Bobby nodded. "Invited her, yep."

"You had no right," Sam spat, standing in one fluid motion, eyes flashing with his father's temper.

Bobby took exception to that tone, and glared at the kid. "I invite into my house whoever I damn well please," he retorted, voice level.

Sam shook his head. "No. You had no right. She's my wife and if I'd wanted her to --"

"Good to know you still remember that bit."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You don't treat your _wife _the way you've treated that girl! You don't--"

"How the hell would you know?!"

The question stole his breath for a moment, knocked the wind right out of him with images of dark hair and a bright smile he did his best not to dwell on.

But before he could formulate a response, Dean intervened, voice calm and controlled—disconnected. "Bobby's right."

Sam's gaze landed on his brother with the precision and force of a laser beam. "He had no right," Sam repeated.

An empty smirk graced Dean's face. "A family affair," he repeated. "You made her family."

Sam shook his head, "What's going on here—what we're doing, it has nothing to do with Jess. It--"

"What are we doing?" Dean interrupted.

Sam stopped mid-sentence, mouth hanging open. He blinked, apparently at a complete loss.

Dean answered his own question. "I know _I'm _fixing the Impala, but I'm kinda unclear on what you're doing . . . and as far as I can see, _we're _not doing anything."

It was harsher, colder, than Bobby had ever seen Dean be with his brother and judging by Sam's continued silence it had shocked the younger boy to his core.

"You should go home with Jess, Sam, when she gets here. You go home with her, see if you can make up the semester, get back on track." Dean finished and pushed his chair back, standing.

He was moving to set the empty mug in the sink and Bobby was drawing in a breath he planned to release on a sigh when Sam snapped.

"You're fucking full of shit, Dean!" he roared, stepping towards his brother angrily.

Dean's entire body stilled and he turned towards Sam slowly, face impassive, silent.

"_We _are here fucking _grieving, _you asshole! _That's _what we're doing here!" Sam growled still moving forward.

Bobby straightened, set his mug down because Dean's face had just rippled; a crack of the ice that revealed a glimpse of darkness.

Sam continued, voice loud and angry. "Our father just _died _and we are supposed to be GRIEVING! We're supposed to be _healing! _Not pretending like nothing happened! Not acting like today was any other day, but DEALING with the--"

It happened too fast for Bobby to stop it, almost too fast for him to even see it. One second Sam was yelling and Dean standing by the sink, the next Dean had his little brother by the front of his shirt and shoved up against the wall on the other side of him.

"Shut your mouth," Dean growled, both fists full of Sam's shirt, pressing against his brothers chest.

"Why Dean? Don't wanna hear the truth? The truth is it happened, Dad's dead and not thinking about it doesn't make it go away; doesn't mean it didn't happen—"

"You shut your fuckin' mouth, Sammy, or I swear to god I'm gonna--"

"You're gonna what? What are you gonna _do _Dean? You haven't _done _anything! You walk around like a zombie half the time!" Sam's hands came up to wrap around Dean's wrists, before he continued, "So yeah, come on, _please _even, _do _something!" He hissed.

The thread of real pleading, of real hope in Sam's voice, underneath the anger and challenge, must have reached Dean.

He backed off as if burned, no less than five steps back from his brother, arms dropping to his sides. His emotions were too real suddenly; anger was easy, but the look on Sam's face wasn't.

He shook his head a little and they watched as he pulled himself back under control. "Did you ever consider that maybe it shouldn't be a _we, _that maybe I don't want it to be?" he asked Sam.

Sam flinched, even looked a little winded like maybe he hadn't even considered that. "Dean--"

"I don't need you here holding my hand and offering a shoulder to cry on, Sam. I'm doing just fine without -"

Sam's anger returned in a flash. "You bashed HOLES into the Impala, Dean!" He roared.

And Bobby felt himself and tense all over, maybe even break out into a sweat. Because holy hell, didn't Sam get the idea of goddamned _boundaries?_ Not the Impala, never the Impala.

Dean's entire face darkened in a scowl and Sam didn't shut up.

"How the _fuck _is that 'doing fine'? Huh?" he asked, taking a step towards his brother.

"Yeah well, who the _fuck _asked you?! I don't need you to be my goddamned keeper, Sam!"

"Because you don't need ANYONE, right?! Not even Dad! That's why you don't need to talk about his death, because you didn't need--"

It wasn't that Bobby didn't see it coming, 'cause he sure as hell did; it was just that he had no way of stopping it from where he was standing.The punch Dean delivered to Sam's jaw was hard and quick; and it had Sam's head swinging to the side, his hand flying to his face.

Bobby moved towards them a second too late, but he pulled Dean backwards away from Sam anyway. Glared holes into the boy, because if his Daddy were alive that's what he'd be doin'.

And yellin'.

He opened his mouth to some of that, but something in Dean's face, in the way he was facing Sam, froze the words on Bobby's tongue.

Disbelief and shock at what he'd just done were melting and mixing with stubborn defiance, a tilt to his chin and a dark glint in his eyes almost daring Sam to say something, to yell at him… to hit back.

Bobby wasn't surprised when Sam held his tongue too, wasn't surprised when Sam made no move to strike back.That mix of remorse and defiance, that tilt to his chin, that glint in his eyes made Dean look older than his 27 years, made him look weary-- bruised.

The room was silent for too long. Bobby kept shifting his gaze from one brother to the other, watching as they stared at each other, watching their silent conversation take place.

When Dean finally spoke his voice was thick and his eyes stormy, but they didn't waver from Sam's. "You go home with Jess when she comes, Sam."

But Sam was his father's son, had no freakin' clue when to give up. "Dean, come on man, please… you can't… what are you gonna do? Huh? You--"

Dean tilted his head a little and interrupted, eyes settling, voice steady. "I'm gonna fix the Impala, Sam. And then… then I'm gonna go--" he shrugged one shoulder, the casual action doing nothing to detract from the intensity in his eyes, "Save people, hunt things, you know, the family business."

Bobby didn't know why, but Sam had a physical reaction to those words; face drawing into pinched lines as he pulled in a surprised breath, his eyes going wide.

Those words meant something deeper than what was on the surface to them; those words were heavy with a history just a'tween the two of them and Dean invoking them now stopped Sam in his tracks.

Sam didn't respond, just continued to stare at his big brother with those suddenly child-like eyes, nothing to counter that statement with.

And Dean, Dean wasn't finished yet. He was his Daddy's boy too and he knew when it was time to lay down the law. "And you-" he began in a surprisingly soft tone, "You are gonna go home."

* * *

TBC.

* * *


End file.
